


The One With The Table

by silverlining99



Series: Law Enforcement [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99





	The One With The Table

Christine is, on the shuttle trip back to the Enterprise, about eight different kinds of uncomfortable. For one thing, she feels outright messy and gross.

For another, the close confines of the shuttle make it really, really difficult to avoid meeting the captain's eyes, or McCoy's. It's like the second McCoy's arm fell from her shoulders, as they approached the docking site, it took along with it some fragile protection against the stark reality of what had happened.

Which was-- jesus. She'd just come. In public. On her boss. In front of the _captain_. Maybe - god, she can't decide if she even _wants_ to know for sure just how much Kirk witnessed.

Christine yanks a spare tunic on over her horrible outfit and sits in the corner of the shuttle and tries, hard, to ignore everything and everyone for the entire three hours it takes to reach the ship. About halfway there, the small measure of relief she's been feeling over leaving the stupid moon, the awful mission behind, shifts into apprehension.

He'd said he wanted to fuck her. She'd pretty much _asked_ him to fuck her - and not in a nice, romantic, barricaded in the astrometrics lab and wined and dined and made to love to sort of way, either. She kind of can't believe the ridiculousness of her own stupid mind, the naive _innocence_ that she -- that part of her really almost longs to get back.

She sneaks a glance at McCoy. He's staring at her, from the other end of the shuttle, the other side. She snaps her gaze to the floor and crosses her legs, blushes at the brief throb of sensation it causes.

She's putting in for a transfer, she decides. Tomorrow. Immediately. And if it's not granted-- well, fuck her career. She'll go AWOL.

She just has to get through whatever happens when they reach the ship. Christine burns with shame and dread.

And, maybe, some anticipation. A touch. A shred. Holy God in heaven, she thinks, but she's gone completely 'round the bend.

When they touch down in the landing bay, Scotty is there with a security team, to hand over command and take charge of the prisoner, respectively. He beams at them all. "Captain. Good to have you back, sir - she's all yours."

Kirk gazes happily around the cavernous bay. "Has she been good?"

"Aye, sir, a right doll." Christine rolls her eyes, thinks she's never seen two men more in love with a _thing_ than these two. "A bit of an accident this morning when a power junction blew, but other than that everything's been smooth sailing." Scotty winces and glances at McCoy. "Two maintenance technicians were injured, I'm afraid."

McCoy curses and stomps away, doesn't look back. Christine watches him go, completely unsurprised at his automatic need to know what's going on with any patient aboard the ship.

It really shouldn't have taken her so unawares, she realizes numbly, to discover he adds a dose of controlling bastard to everything he does. _Naive_. God.

Kirk dismisses them all, sends them off duty with a cheery, "good job, guys." Christine doesn't move for a few seconds, finds herself unsure of what, exactly, she's supposed to do with herself. Wandering back to her quarters, alone, without any sort of confrontation at all, is not exactly how she expected this to go down.

The disappointment takes her by surprise, another in a long list of things.

She bumps straight into Kirk when they reach the bay doors at the same time. Her breath catches and she eyes him warily. "Nurse Chapel," he says calmly, a hand on her shoulder to steady her. "Sorry about that."

Christine stares dumbly as he says nothing else and strides away with Scotty.

She goes straight to her quarters and strips down, trashes the tiny scraps of fabric someone had had the nerve to call clothing. In the shower she scrubs herself clean quickly, viciously, then rests her forehead against the wall and lets the water cascade over her for the rest of her time allotment, closes her eyes, tries to think clearly.

It's sort of impossible. Her thoughts start out a mess of _fuck, fuck, FUCK_ and _he's going to - oh god_ and _it’ll be okay, they need nurses everywhere_ , and gradually shift to _I can't - we can't - this is a bad idea_ and _why isn't he_ here _already, jesus, why isn't he -_

She's angry and horny and frustrated and feels pathetic about eight times over as she turns the shower off and towels herself dry. The feeling doesn't get any better when she pulls on a light dress and reaches into her underwear drawer and-- and takes her hand back out, empty.

She curses at herself and sits down at her dining/desk/I need a place to put my clutter in cramped quarters table to draft her transfer request. Might as well do something productive with her time, she figures; might as well get back to her habit of planning ahead on the off chance it might do something to fix the one - spectacular - lapse.

Hours pass. She can't stop thinking about McCoy, about his hands on her, about the scrape of stubble across her skin. He's not, she begins to think - and her heart sinks completely, at last - going to come. She's stupid, so stupid, to have thought he would. To have thought it meant anything, things said in the - the moment, things like _that_. He's probably off somewhere, figuring out how to break it to her.

Or, hell. He probably - and fuck if she knows if this makes her feel better or worse, if it makes her want to sigh in relief or curl up and cry - needed all of thirty seconds to plan out a succinct "playtime's over, Chapel, you have a chance to look over that shift roster yet?"

That's fine, she thinks resolutely. That's... better. That's the sort of thing she'll be able to deal with until she can get off the ship and start figuring out how to pick up the pieces of her career without actually going back and searching the bar floor where she's pretty damn sure she left them.

She's just about ready to stop wallowing in misery and go to bed when her door chimes. "Come in," she calls, and it slides open. McCoy steps inside, and Christine feels, for the tiniest instant, like time has stopped.

Then she scrambles to her feet. "Doctor McCoy," she says. Her voice comes out wavering and thin; she hates herself. She passes her palms down her skirt to smooth it. She doesn't say anything else, doesn't trust herself to.

McCoy stares at her. He's showered, changed into a uniform, but hasn't taken the time to shave. Her throat prickles all over again at the sight, the memory. "Chapel," he returns. She resents the steadiness of his tone. He reaches behind him to touch the door controls and activate the security lock, all without looking away from her.

Christine stops breathing for a second.

"Come here," he says, and her feet move, they just _move_ without her thinking about it, they just obey automatically. When she stops in front of him, he reaches out and pinches her chin between his thumb and index finger, tilts her face up. "There's nothing I hate more than goddamn fool accidents," he mutters, sort of thoughtfully. "Just a waste of fucking time -- what do you want here?"

She blinks at him, at the abrupt shift in focus, and doesn't answer. He scowls at her. "Awfully quiet for someone mouthing off so much earlier, Chapel. What. Do. You. Want?"

Christine closes her eyes and counts to three and thinks about the transfer request, saved to her PADD, ready to be submitted. "I think you know," she replies. Her voice comes out strong, finally.

She hears his quick intake of breath and then she's moving, her entire body, a whirl that ends with her back to the wall. He pins her with the lean of his body, the cage of his arms, palms flat to the wall on either side of her shoulders. His mouth slants over hers and her eyes fly open, and she stares wildly past his head at the opposite wall as he sweeps his tongue firmly, deeply into her mouth. His groin pushes against her stomach. Warning her, she thinks. Promising. She curls her fingers into tight fists at her sides and wants to touch him and can't bring herself to. "mmph," she says.

He rumbles and grabs the thick coil of hair she's pinned up at the back of her head and kisses her harder. He keeps pulling her lower lip in dragging sucks and it'll be swollen later, she knows, it'll be fat and tender, taking abuse like this. She'll be able to worry at it with her tongue, her teeth, and pull up memories just from the puffy wrong feel of it. "mmm," she says, and brings her hands to his neck and kisses him back.

McCoy tastes like coffee, bitter and stale, strong. She slides one leg up along his, curls it around the back of his knee, surges hip-first forward, her hands flattened to the wall. He runs his palm along her raised thigh until he feels her, bare, and goes still. His mouth parts from hers slowly. "Well I'll be, Chapel," he remarks mildly, watching her through narrowed eyes, "you are really something else, aren't you?"

She's not sure she likes the sound of that. "I don't know," she says, wary. "Like what?"

He shakes his head. "Not sure yet." His fingers tighten in her hair and pull, force her head back. He breathes against the underside of her chin, licks a short stripe with the tip of his tongue. "Gonna figure it out, though, I'll tell you that much."

Christine frowns. "I assume you'll share with the rest of the class?" she mutters. "Once you've, you know, finished analyzing me and all."

McCoy releases her hair. Most of it falls free, loosened by his fingers. He steps abruptly away, taking her with him with a fistful of the gathered neckline of her dress. "Trust me, honey, when I pin something down about you, you're gonna know it. You won't be able to _help_ but know it."

It's enough to make her almost dizzy, the shift from annoyed to- to not, the stumble across the room until he stops abruptly and pulls her back in and takes her mouth back up. His hands ruck up the skirt of her dress and clutch at her ass, and one slips lower, long fingers playing at her, testing. "Huh," he says, and she bites her lip and rakes her fingers through his hair, guides his mouth along her jaw. "You been here itching for it all this time, or are you just that quick out of the gate?"

Pure needs jolts through her, wipes out other concerns. Christine whimpers and drops her hands, jerks hastily at the closure of his pants. "You know damn well," she snaps, the irritation surging back. She can't get the damn button-- there. She plunges a hand in and god, but he's hot and heavy to the touch, soft skin belying the steely promise beneath, slick at the tip. He freezes, breathes unevenly against her ear. She fists him and strokes slowly, twists her wrist and flicks her thumb on the upbeat. "You know."

McCoy grabs her wrist suddenly, wrenches her hand away. "Don't," he says harshly, and spins her around. "Don't -- touch me, damn it, don't-- fuck." He wraps his hands around her arms, fingers broad across the hollows of her elbows, and pulls back. He hooks an arm under hers, tight against the small of her back, gets a grip on the other. Her shoulders ache in protest at the stretch and it's either fight or arch against him, break free or give way.

She gives. He palms roughly at her upthrust breast with his free hand, then lifts it to her crown and tugs her head to the side and back, against his shoulder. His mouth drags across her neck, whiskers setting her skin on fire. She makes a soft, pained sound and his hand flexes on her arm, loosens for moments in which she knows she could pull away, knows he would let her.

She doesn't even try. "Please," she gasps. The sound purrs from her stretched throat, up and out, a prayer.

He bites down hard on the slope of shoulder to neck, a brief, deep hurt. "Please what?" he murmurs, and sucks hard on the aching flesh. "You're gonna say it, swear to God, Chapel, if you're gonna do this to me you can damn well _ask_."

"I didn't- I didn't _do_ anything," she whines.

"You've been doing it for _months_ , goddamn it," he snaps. He releases her arms and before she can even shake out the ache he's shoving her forward, knees bumping the backs of hers, and pushing her down hard on the table. The PADD she'd been working on, her transfer request, goes flying to the floor from her skittering hand. He bends over her, crushes her down. His cock bumps against the back of her leg, smears. "The way you look at me. Your goddamn _smell_ , Christ, do you have to smell so good?"

Christine whimpers and tries to push herself up. It's a losing battle; she slumps, defeated. He rights himself and presses the heel of one hand between her shoulder blades, warning, "Don't move."

She presses her cheek to the cool composite alloy of the table. It eases the flaring heat in her face, just a little. She stretches one arm out and grasps for the edge, shifts her body slightly along the surface. McCoy flips her skirt up and his hand comes down, a quick, rebuking sting. She crams her knuckles against her teeth to try to choke off her startled cry. "Don't _move_ , I said."

He kicks her feet apart and steps close. His cock moves between her legs, the length sliding along her slick flesh. She squirms as the head bumps her clit. "Please," she mumbles. "Please, I want you to- want you--" McCoy leans over her back and wraps his arms around her waist, slides his hands low to spread her open. He presses at her entrance and begins to work his way slowly in. " _Hard_ ," she gasps, and squeezes her eyes shut, sucks in air. "Just _fuck_ me, jesus, _please_."

"That's my girl," he says softly, and he grabs her with strong hands at her waist and pushes deep.

The force of it lifts her onto her toes and her body jostles against the table. "Ah!" she cries, and he thrusts again. She slaps her palms against the table and digs in, fights the easy slide of her dress over the surface, fights to push back into each merciless stroke. Every one pushes sharp noises from her, moans mixed with pleading words and mindless prayers. He slips a hand around and rubs her firmly with two fingers, not coaxing her release but demanding it, wrenching it out of her.

Christine feels suddenly, stupidly grateful to every bland, boring man she's ever slept with, everyone who's left _this_ for _him_. She's at a loss to understand what's happened to her, who she _is_ all of a sudden, but no more can she imagine anything, ever, being better than - than his body curving down over her back, his hand working her through the aftershocks, his cock stroking into her, sure and steady and resolute. "Leonard," she chokes out. It sounds wrong to her, not the right time, not the right-- "Doctor McCoy," she tries, and he groans, and another small orgasm washes through her. "Oh. oh god."

"Jesus fucking--" he snarls as she convulses around him. He pumps in fast, short and sharp and sweet, closing in. "Take it, Chapel, that's it, there you go, there, _take_ it --"

He slams in hard and comes with a rough, low cry that sends a shiver all the way down to Christine's toes.

McCoy slumps against her, almost too heavy, not quite. He shifts slightly and his cock slips free. He breathes raggedly into the sweaty mess of hair plastered on her neck, into the slope of her shoulder. He makes a wordless noise; she makes one back. He huffs a short, amused snort of air. His hands roam up and down her legs, petting, soothing. "Okay," he mutters. "You're okay, baby, you're just fine."

She can't explain it to herself, the laughter that erupts from her. She shakes under his weight, barely able to breathe. "Uh-huh," she hiccups. "Okay. That's me. I am... okay."

He sighs and pulls away, stands. She hears his clothes rustle. After a second his hands slip under her arms to pull her upright, and he turns her to face him. He eyes her carefully, thoughtfully, and brushes his knuckles across her cheek. She can smell herself on him. She closes her eyes and pushes into the light touch. "And stark raving mad, apparently," he grumbles, wrapping his arms around her, drawing her close. "Christ, honey, get it together."

She leans against his chest and tries to swallow down the giggles. She hugs him around the waist and he kisses the skin in front of her ear. "Sorry," she mumbles. Her shoulders hitch with another barely contained shudder of amusement. "It's just... 'Okay.' God. Really."

"For the love of-- " He pushes her away and in a swift motion, swings her off her feet. "You'll be the death of me, you know that?" he mutters, carrying her into her tiny bedroom. He sets her down next to her bed and fumbles under her hair, tugs her zipper down her back. Her dress slips from her shoulders and falls and pools at her feet, and he steps back to sweep his gaze up and down her body, fully exposed to him for the first time. "Oh yeah," he says hoarsely. "You're gonna fucking kill me one of these days."

Christine stares at his face, at the flare in his eyes and the desire, the affection she can't help but see. Her cheeks warm, but not from embarrassment. She pokes him with one finger in the chest. "That'd be stupid of me," she says. She feels happy, light. She collapses onto her bed as he starts to undress. "You're kind of useful alive."

McCoy snorts. She watches with interest as his body slowly comes into view. "Kind of useful?" he echoes dryly. "How flattering. Nice silver tongue you've got there, Christine, you're a real fucking charmer."

She flushes at the sound of her name, the way it catches in his throat at the start and lingers out along the end. "Seems to me you _are_ pretty charmed by my tongue, you smug bastard," she replies, welcoming him into her arms as he lies beside her. He leans over her and mouths wetly at one breast, brief but intent, focused. "And other things too, I guess, huh?"

"I'd say pretty much everything," he agrees quietly, against her ribs. He rests his head between her breasts and yawns. She ruffles his hair and closes her eyes, content. "Every goddamn thing."


End file.
